The Touch of the Master’s Hand
It was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good people,” he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three” . . . but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its bow.
“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone,” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand.
What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of the Master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A ‘mess of pottage*,’ a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on,
He’s going once, and going twice -
He’s going - and almost gone!
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.
by Myra Brooks Welch
*Pottage is a thick soup or stew, taking its name from being the contents of a cooking pot. In this instance, pottage is a metaphor for something immediately attractive but of little value, taken foolishly and carelessly in exchange for something more distant and perhaps less tangible but immensely more valuable.
Myra Brooks Welch was born on 12 October 1877 in Farmington Township, Fulton County, Illinois, United States of America. She wrote the poem, “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” for the benefit of the congregation at the church she attended. The poem was eventually published in “The Gospel Messenger” (26 February 1921) and later in the book, “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” (1951). Myra Brooks Welch passed on at 81 years of age on 11 August 1959 in Los Angeles, California, United States of America. On 1 June 1997, Brethren Press released Wendy McFadden’s “The Story Behind the Touch of the Master’s Hand,” which is the story of Myra Brooks Welch and the poem that earned her the title, ‘The Poet with the Singing Soul.’
It was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good people,” he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three” . . . but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its bow.
“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone,” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand.
What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of the Master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A ‘mess of pottage*,’ a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on,
He’s going once, and going twice -
He’s going - and almost gone!
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.
by Myra Brooks Welch
*Pottage is a thick soup or stew, taking its name from being the contents of a cooking pot. In this instance, pottage is a metaphor for something immediately attractive but of little value, taken foolishly and carelessly in exchange for something more distant and perhaps less tangible but immensely more valuable.
Myra Brooks Welch was born on 12 October 1877 in Farmington Township, Fulton County, Illinois, United States of America. She wrote the poem, “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” for the benefit of the congregation at the church she attended. The poem was eventually published in “The Gospel Messenger” (26 February 1921) and later in the book, “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” (1951). Myra Brooks Welch passed on at 81 years of age on 11 August 1959 in Los Angeles, California, United States of America. On 1 June 1997, Brethren Press released Wendy McFadden’s “The Story Behind the Touch of the Master’s Hand,” which is the story of Myra Brooks Welch and the poem that earned her the title, ‘The Poet with the Singing Soul.’
